MONTICELLO AGAIN
The night was hot and dark when Rand, riding Selim, left the town and
took the Monticello road. He forded the creek, and the horse, scrambling
up the farther side, struck fire from the loose stones. Farther on, the
way grew steep, and the heavy shadow of the overhanging trees made yet
more oppressive the breathless night. The stars could hardly be seen
between the branches, but from the ground to the leafy roof the
fireflies sparkled restlessly. Rand thought, as he rode, of the future
and the present, but not of the past. It was so old and familiar, this
road, that he might well feel the eyes of the past fixed upon him from
every bush and tree; but if he felt the gaze, he set his will and would
not return it. For some time he climbed through the thick darkness, shot
with those small and wandering fires, but at last he came upon the
higher levels and saw below him the wide and dark plain. In the east
there was heat lightning. Here on the mountain-top the air blew, and a
man was free from the dust of the valley. He drew a long breath, checked
Selim for a moment, and, sitting there, looked out over the vast
expanse; but the eyes of the past grew troublesome, and he hurried on.
It was striking nine when a negro opened the house gate for him and,
following him to the portico, took the horse from which he dismounted.
Light streamed from the open door, and from the library windows. Except
for a glimmer in the Abbé Correa's room, the rest of the house was in
darkness. If Mrs. Randolph and her daughters were there, they had
retired. He heard no voices. In the hot and sulphurous night the
pillared, silent house with its open portal provoked a sensation of
strangeness. Rand crossed the portico and paused at the door. Time had
been when he would have made no pause, but, familiar to the house and
assured of his welcome, would have passed through the wide hall to the
library and his waiting friend and mentor. Now he laid his hand upon the
knocker, but before it could sound, a door halfway down the hall opened,
and there appeared the tall figure of the President. He stood for a
moment, framed in the doorway, gazing at his visitor, and there was in
his regard a curious thoughtfulness, an old regret, and--or so Rand
thought--a faint hostility. The look lasted but a moment; he raised his
hand, and, with a movement that was both a gesture of welcome and an
invitation to follow him, turned and entered the passage which led to
the library. Rand moved in silence through the hall, where Indian
curiosities, horns of elk, and prehistoric relics were arranged above
the marble heads of Buonaparte and Alexander the First, Franklin and
Voltaire, and down the narrow passage to the room that had been almost
chief of all his sacred places. It was now somewhat dimly lit, with
every window wide to the night. Jefferson, sitting beside the table in
his particular great chair, motioned the younger man to a seat across
from him, evidently placed in anticipation of his coming. Rand took the
chair, but as he did so, he slightly moved the candles upon the table so
that they did not illumine, as they had been placed to illumine, his
face and figure. It was he who began the conversation, and he wasted no
time upon preliminaries. The night was in his blood, and he was weary of
half measures. This storm had long been brewing: let it break and be
over with; better the open lightning than the sullen storing up of
unpaid scores, unemptied vials of wrath! There were matters of quarrel:
well, let the quarrel come! The supreme matter, unknown and undreamed of
by the philosopher opposite him, would sleep secure beneath the uproar
over little things. He craved the open quarrel. It would be easier after
the storm. The air would be cleared, though by forces that were dire,
and he could go more easily through the forest when he had laid the
trees low. It was better to hurry over the bared plain towards the
shining goal than to stumble and be deterred amid these snares of old
memories, habits, affections, and gratitudes. The past--the past was
man's enemy. He was committed to the future, and in order to serve that
strong master there was work--disagreeable work--to be done in the
present. Ingratitude!--that, too, was but a word, though a long one. He
was willing to deceive himself, and so ideas and images came at his
bidding, but they hung his path with false lights, and they served, not
him, but his inward foe.
He spoke abruptly. "That Militia Bill,--the matter did not approve
itself to my reason, and so I could not push it through. I understood,
of course, at the time that you were vexed--"
"I should not say that 'vexed' was the word. I was surprised. You will
do me the justice to acknowledge that I cheerfully accepted the
explanation which you gave me. You are fully aware that I, of all men,
would be the last to deny your right--any man's right--of private
judgment. All this was last winter, and might have been buried out of
sight."
"I have heard that a letter of mine in the Enquirer gave you umbrage. It
was my opinion that the country's honour demanded less milk and water,
less supineness in our dealings with England, and I expressed my
opinion--"
"The country's honour! That expression of your opinion placed you among
the critics of the administration, and that at an hour when every friend
was needed. It came without warning, and if it was meant to wound me, it
succeeded."
Rand moved restlessly. "It was not," he said sombrely; "it was not meant
to wound you, sir. Let me, once for all, sitting in this room amid the
shades of so many past kindnesses, utterly disavow any personal feeling
toward you other than respect and gratitude. It was apparent to me that
the letter must be written, but I take God to witness that I regretted
the necessity."
"The regret," answered the other, "will doubtless, in the sight of the
Power you invoke, justify the performance. Well, the nine days' wonder
of the letter is long over! A man in public life cannot live sixty years
without suffering and forgiving many a similar stab. The letter was in
February. Afterwards--"
"I ceased to write to you. Through all the years in which I had written,
we had been in perfect accord. Now I saw the rift between us, and that
it would widen, and I threw no futile bridges."
"You are frank. I have indeed letters from you, written in this
room"--There was upon the table an orderly litter of books and papers.
From a packet of the latter Jefferson drew a letter, unfolded it, and,
stretching out his long arm, laid it on the table before his visitor.
"There is one," he said, "written not three years ago, on the evening of
the day when you were elected to the General Assembly. I shall ask you
to do me the favour to read it through."
Rand took the letter and ran his dark eye down the sheets. As he read,
the blood stained his cheek, brow, and throat, and presently, with a
violent movement, he rose and, crossing the room to a window, stood
there with his face to the night. The clock had ticked three minutes
before he turned and, coming back to the table, dropped the letter upon
its polished surface. "You have your revenge," he said. "Yes, I was like
that--and less than three years ago. I remember that night very well,
and had a spirit whispered to me then that this night would come, I
would have told the spirit that he lied! And it has come. Let us pass to
the next count in the indictment."
"The Albemarle Resolutions--"
"I carried them."
"I wished them carried, but I should rather have seen them lost than
that in your speech--a speech that resounded far and wide--you should
have put the face you did upon matters! You knew my sentiments and
convictions; until I read that speech, I thought they were your own. The
Albemarle Resolutions! I have heard it said that your zeal for the
Albemarle Resolutions was largely fanned by the fact that your personal
enemy was chief among your opponents!"
"May I ask who said that?"
"You may ask, but I shall not answer. We are now at late February."
"The Assembly adjourned. I returned to Albemarle."
"You took first a journey to Philadelphia."
"Yes. Is there treason in that?"
"That," said Jefferson, with calmness, "is a word not yet of my using."
Rand leaned forward. "Yet?" he repeated, with emphasis.
There fell a silence in the room. After a moment of sitting quietly, his
hands held lightly on the arm of his chair, Mr. Jefferson rose and began
to pace the floor. The action was unusual; in all personal intercourse
his command of himself was remarkable. An inveterate cheerful composure,
a still sunniness, a readiness to settle all jars of the universe in an
extremely short time and without stirring from his chair, were
characteristics with which Rand was too familiar not to feel a frowning
wonder at the pacing figure and the troubled footfall. He was a man bold
to hardihood, and well assured of a covered trail, so assured that his
brain rejected with vehemence the thought that darted through it. To Mr.
Jefferson the word that he had audaciously used could have no
significance. Treason! Traitor! Aaron Burr and his Jack-o'-Lantern
ambitions, indeed, had long been looked upon with suspicion, vague and
ill-directed, now slumbering and now idly alert. In this very room--in
this very room the man had been talked of, discussed, analysed, and
puffed away by the two who now held it with their estranged and troubled
souls. Burr was gone; this August night he was floating down the Ohio
toward New Orleans and the promised blow. Had some fool or knave or
sickly conscience among the motley that was conspiring with him turned
coward or been bought? It was possible. Burr might be betrayed, but
hardly Lewis Rand. That was a guarded maze to which Mr. Jefferson could
have no clue.
Jefferson came back to the table and the great chair. "You were, of
course, as free as any man to travel to Philadelphia or where you would.
I heard that you were upon such a journey, and I felt a certitude that
you would also visit Washington. Had you done this, I should have
received you with the old confidence and affection. I should have
listened to the explanation I felt assured you would wish to make. At
that time it was my belief that there needed but one long conversation
between us to remove misapprehension, to convince you of your error, and
to recall you to your allegiance. Do not mistake me. I craved no more
than was human, no more than was justified by our relations in the
past--your allegiance to me. But I wished to see you devoutly true to
the principles you professed, to the Republican Idea, and to all that
you, no less than I, had once included in that term. I looked for you in
Washington, and I looked in vain."
"You make it hard for me," said Rand, with lowered eyes. "I had no
explanation to give."
"When you neither came nor wrote, I assumed as much. It was in April
that you returned to Albemarle. Since then I have myself been twice in
the county."
"We have met--"
"But never alone. Had you forgotten the Monticello road? After the
Three-Notched Road, I should have thought it best known to you."
"I have not forgotten it, sir. But I might doubt my welcome here."
"You might well doubt it," answered the other sternly. "But had there
been humility in your heart--ay, or common remembrance!--that doubt
would not have kept you back. When I saw at last that you would not
come, I--"
He paused, took from the table a book and turned its leaves, then closed
and laid it down again. "I whistled you down the wind," he said.
There was a silence, then, far away in the hot night, a dog howled. The
hall clock struck the hour. Rand drew his breath sharply and turned in
his chair. "And you brought me here to-night to tell me so?"
"I will answer that presently. In these three years you have made
yourself a great name in Virginia; and now your party--It is still your
party?"
"It is still my party."
"Your party wishes to make you Governor. You have travelled fast and
far since the days when you walked with your father! Yesterday I was
astounded to hear that you had refused the nomination."
"Why should you be 'astounded'?"
"Because I hold you for a most ambitious man, and this is the plain, the
apparent step in your fortunes. At what goal are you aiming?"
"I did not want the governorship, sir."
"Then you want a greater thing. What it is--what it is"--With a sudden
movement he rested his elbow on the table and regarded Rand from under
the shelter of his hand. "And so," he said at last, in an altered
voice,--"and so you will not be Governor. Well, it is an honourable
post. This is late August, and in November you return to Richmond--"
"I go first across the mountains to examine a tract of land I have
bought."
"Indeed? When do you go?"
"I have not altogether decided."
"Will you take Mrs. Rand with you?"
"I think so. Yes."
"It is," said Mr. Jefferson, "a rough journey and a wild country for a
lady."
As he spoke he rose, and, going to a small table, poured for himself a
little wine in a glass and drank it slowly, then, putting the glass
gently down, passed to a long window and stood, as Rand had stood before
him, looking out into the night. When he turned, the expression of his
face had again changed. "It is growing late," he said. "In two days I
return to Washington. The world will have grown older ere we meet again.
Who knows? We may never meet again. This night we may be parting
forever. You ask me if I brought you here to tell you that I acquiesced
in this quarrel of your making, shook you from my thoughts, and bade
you an eternal farewell. That is as may be. Even now--even now the
nature of our parting is in your hands!"
Rand also had risen. "In this room, what can I say? Your kindness to me
has been very great. My God, sir, I should be stock or stone not to feel
abashed! And yet--and yet--Will you have it at last? You ask
discipleship--you must have about you tame and obedient spirits--a Saint
James the Greater and a Saint James the Less to hearken to your words
and spread them far and wide, and all the attentive band to wait upon
your wisdom! Free! We are tremendously free, but you must still be Lord
and Master! Well, say that I rebel--"
"I see that you have done so," said Jefferson, with irony. "_I_ am not
your Lord and Master."
"I would not, if I could, have shunned this interview to-night. For long
we have felt this strain, and now the sharp break is over. I shall sleep
the better for it."
"I am glad, sir, that you view it so."
"For years I have worn your livery and trudged your road,--that fair,
wide country road with bleating sheep and farmer folk, all going to
markets dull as death! I've swincked and sweated for you on that road.
Now I'll tread my own, though I come at last to the gates of Tartarus!
My service is done, sir; I'm out of livery."
"Your road!" exclaimed the other. "Where does it lie, and who are your
fellow travellers? John Randolph of Roanoke and the new Republicans? or
monarchism and the Federalists? Or have I the honour, to-night, to
entertain a Virginian Cæsar?--perhaps even a Buonaparte?" His voice
changed. "Have you reflected, sir, that there is some danger in so free
an expression of your mind?"
"I have reflected," answered Rand, "that there is no danger so
intolerable as the chafing of a half-acknowledged bond. The clock is
striking again. I owe you much, sir. I thank you for it. While I served
you, I served faithfully. It is over now. I look you in the face and
tell you this, and so I give you warning that I am free. Henceforth I
act as my free will directs."
"Act, then!" said the other. "Act, and find a weight upon your genius
heavier than all behests of duty, friendship, faith, and loyalty rolled
in one! Single out from all humanity one man alone, and that yourself,
surround him with a monstrous observance, sacrifice before him every
living thing that shall cross his path, crown him with gold, and banish
from his court every idea that will not play the sycophant! Seat him, a
chained king, high in some red star!--and still, like a wandering wind,
large and candid thought, straying some day past your gloomy windows,
shall look within and say, 'See this slave to himself chained upon his
burning throne!' When at last you hear the voice, try to break away."
He left the window and, crossing to the mantel, pulled the bell-rope.
Old Burwell appeared at the door. "Mr. Rand's horse, Burwell," directed
the master, in a cheerful voice, then, when the negro was gone, spoke on
without change of tone. "The night has altered while we talked. There is
a great bank of cloud in the west, and I think the drouth is broken. You
will reach Roselands, however, before the rain comes down. Pray present
my respectful salutations to Mrs. Rand."
"You are very good," said Rand. "My wife"--He hesitated, then, "I would
have you aware that my wife's hand would keep me in that same country
road I spoke of, among those same green fields and peaceful, blameless
folk! Her star is not like mine--"
"I esteem her the more highly for it," answered the other. "I hear your
horse upon the gravel--Selim, still, is it not? A pleasant ride to you
home through this fresher air! Good-night--and good-bye."
"I am not the monster I appear to you," said Rand. "A man may go through
life and never encounter the irresistible current. When he does--I am as
little superstitious as you, but I tell you I am borne on! All the men
and women whose blood is in my veins hurry me on, and there is behind me
a tide of circumstance. For all past kindnesses I thank you, sir. I
admire you much, reverence you no little, and bid you a long farewell."
He walked to the door, then, turning, swept the room with one slow look.
"I was fifteen," he said, "the day I first came here. There was a glass
of lilies on the table. Good-night, sir,--and good-bye."
Without, the night was indeed cooler, with a sighing wind, and in the
west a thickening wrack of clouds. It was very dark. The restless and
multitudinous flicker of the fireflies but emphasized the shadow, and
the stars seemed few and dim. It was near midnight, and the wide
landscape below the mountain lay in darkness, save for one distant knoll
where lights were burning. That was Fontenoy, and Rand, looking toward
it with knitted brows, wondered why the house was so brightly lighted at
such an hour. In another moment the road descended, the heavy trees shut
out the view of the valley, and with very much indeed upon his mind, he
thought no more of Fontenoy. It was utterly necessary to him to find a
remedy for the sting, keen and intolerable, which he bore with him from
Monticello. He felt the poison as he rode, and his mind searched, in
passion and in haste, for the sovereign antidote. He found it and
applied it, and the rankling pain grew less. Now more than ever was it
necessary to go on. Now more than ever he must commit himself without
reserve to the strong current. When it had borne him to a fair and far
country, to kingship, sway, empire, and vast renown, then would this
night be justified!
He left the mountain, and, riding rapidly, soon found himself upon the
road to Roselands. It was also the Greenwood road. Between the two
plantations lay a deep wood, and as he emerged from this, he saw before
him in the dim starlight a horseman, coming towards him from Roselands.
"Is that you, Mocket?" he called.
The other drew rein. "It is Ludwell Cary. Good-evening, Mr. Rand. I have
just left Roselands."
"Indeed?" exclaimed Rand. "May I ask--"
"I came from Fontenoy at the request of Colonel Churchill. Mrs.
Churchill fell suddenly very ill to-night. They think she will not last
many hours, and she asks continually for her niece. Colonel Churchill
sent me to beg Mrs. Rand to come without delay to Fontenoy. I have
delivered my message, and she but waits your return to Roselands--"
"I will hurry on," said Rand. "Be so good as to tell Colonel Churchill
that Joab will bring her in the chaise--Mammy Chloe with her. I am sorry
for your news. Accept, too, our thanks for the trouble to which you have
put yourself--"
"It is nothing," answered Cary. "My brother and I chanced to be at
Fontenoy. Mrs. Rand is much distressed, and I'll detain you no longer--"
He bowed, touched his horse, and rode into the wood. Rand turned in his
saddle and looked after him for a long moment, then shook his reins,
broke into a gallop, and passed presently through the Roselands gates
and up the dark drive to the stone steps and open door. Jacqueline met
him on the threshold. She was trembling, but not weeping; there was even
a wistful fire and passion in her dark eyes and a rose-leaf colour in
her cheeks. "Did you meet him?" she said. "Did he tell you? I am all
ready. He says that Aunt Nancy thinks that it is years ago, and that I'm
Jacqueline Churchill still. I thought you would never, never come"--She
turned and threw herself into his arms. "Oh, Lewis, we are going to
Fontenoy!"